


never not

by stonesnuggler



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Break Up, Canon Compliant, Getting Back Together, M/M, NHL Trade(s), various Blackhawks - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 20:28:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17988020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonesnuggler/pseuds/stonesnuggler
Summary: “Matty, I gotta go,” he says, taking his XBox microphone off mute, attention going back to the duos game he’s playing with his brother. He’s still laughing a little when Matt pauses the game.“Loser,” Matt says. “Why?”“Because I’ll probably be on a plane to Chicago first thing tomorrow morning,” Dylan says, without preamble.Matt pauses and something drops in the background of the audio. “Woah, wait. Did you just--”“That was Chayka,” Dylan confirms, shaking his head a little. “I’m a Blackhawk.”“Holy shit,” Matt says, and Dylan can almost hear the realization click in Matt’s head. “Think he knows yet?”Dylan sighs. “He will in a second.”





	never not

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heartequals (savvygambols)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/savvygambols/gifts).



> there are so many people i need to thank for this, but my brain is fried so! you all know who you are, and i love you so much.
> 
> happy birthday dyl! happy strome celly heartequals!! i hope you love these boys as much as they love each other.
> 
> title is from the lauv song of the same name which perfectly encapsulates these idiots and their big dumb feelings.

The first thing Dylan does after he hangs up the phone is laugh, which is not the first thing he would’ve banked on happening.

He has to admit, it’s laughable. Almost hilarious.

“Matty, I gotta go,” he says, taking his XBox microphone off mute, attention going back to the duos game he’s playing with his brother. He’s still laughing a little when Matt pauses the game.

“Loser,” Matt says. “Why?”

“Because I’ll probably be on a plane to Chicago first thing tomorrow morning,” Dylan says, without preamble.

Matt pauses and something drops in the background of the audio. “Woah, wait. Did you just--”

“That was Chayka,” Dylan confirms, shaking his head a little. “I’m a Blackhawk.”

“Holy shit,” Matt says, and Dylan can almost hear the realization click in Matt’s head. “Think he knows yet?”

Dylan sighs. “He will in a second.”

“Good luck, bro,” Matt says, and Dylan exhales a laugh.

He’s gonna need it.

 

___

 

He really means to call Alex right away, is the thing. Like, how perfect is this, right? OHL superstars reunited, Erie forever and otters for life, all that jazz.

The only problem is that he keeps staring at his phone, staring at Alex’s contact without pressing the call button, because how exactly do you tell your ex-boyfriend that you just got traded to his team?

You call your mom first, as an avoidance tactic. That’s how.

That in and of itself is an emotional rollercoaster, and he’s pretty sure that his mom was more relieved than he was. It’s helpful that she’s in town, barely out of his neighborhood in an AirBnB instead of home in Mississauga. With a promise to come over later that night, he’s almost home free when ––

“Are you okay, though, sweetie?” she asks, and Dylan knows what’s coming next. “I know this is probably a lot, especially since everything with Alex.”

She reads him like a goddamn book.

“I’ll be okay, Mom,” Dylan says, and he mostly believes it. “I’m going to call him right now.”

Trish sighs. “If you need me to come over earlier, I will.”

“I’ll be okay,” he repeats. “But I’ll let you know.”

They say their goodbyes and now Dylan doesn’t have any excuses at all. He should just do it, get it over with before it gets put all over the internet and suddenly he’s that asshole who didn’t tell his ‘best friend’ they get to play NHL hockey together before Twitter told him.

So, he does it. He brings up Alex’s contact card and hits the fucking call button.

| | | |

Chicago has an off day in Arizona before they play the Coyotes, and it’s pouring rain when Alex shows up at Dylan’s Tucson apartment in a rental car.

“Didn’t know it was supposed to rain today,” Alex says when he steps inside, running his hand through his hair, misting the rain drops around him.

Dylan shrugs, allows Alex to come and pull him into a hug without a word.

“Something’s up,” Alex says, muffled where he’s pulled into Dylan’s chest.

Dylan sighs, and it’s watery, vision a little blurred by tears. “Yeah,” he says, voice cracking.

The thing is, he’s been thinking about this in the absent way where he wishes that he wasn’t thinking about it. He and Alex are a team, they have been for so fucking long. He’s just ––

“I can’t read your mind, Dylan,” Alex says as he pulls away, voice small in a way Dylan rarely ever hears. “So you can’t expect me to.”

Dylan sighs, breath hitching with it, blinking the blurriness from his eyes.

“I don’t want to have this conversation,” he says, taking Alex’s hand and pulling them to his room, shutting the door behind them. “Like, we have to, but I don’t want to.”

They move together, laying in Dylan’s bed, on their sides toward each other, arms tucked under their heads and sometimes, Dylan hates how much of an extension of himself Alex has turned out to be.

“I love you,” Dylan says, and he means it down to the ache in his chest, down in every tear threatening to escape.

Alex smiles, this awful sad thing that makes Dylan want to shut his eyes. He doesn’t, watches as Alex says, “Which is why we have to do this, isn’t it?”

That’s what forces the tears to finally fall.

It’s because Dylan’s head isn’t in it, at least not to the extent that it should be for it to be fair to either of them.

It’s because Alex is frankly a little frustrated with how Dylan’s giving up hope, even though he wants Dylan to succeed more than nearly anything.

It’s because the distance is killing them a little more than they’d like to admit, like this tug at their chests that no amount of FaceTime dates and stolen dinners on road trips can ease.

It’s because they have to, even if they don’t want to.

They’re both crying by the time they finally let themselves fall together, Alex kissing the air out of his lungs, even though that wouldn’t take much effort, even on a normal day.

Alex fucks him, slow and intense, perfect and awful all at the same time. Dylan comes on a sob, then pulls Alex in and encourages him to keep going. He wants to feel it in the morning, the soreness when he shifts, the bruises on his skin.

If this is the last time he gets this, he wants to remember.

It’s quiet after Alex comes, pulling out and laying next to Dylan, shoulders shaking as Dylan turns to watch the tears fall. He swipes them away with the pad of his thumb, and Alex laughs a little.

“We’re gonna regret this,” Alex says, shaking his head and bringing his hands up to scrub at his face.

“Probably,” Dylan says, pulling Alex close.

One last time.

| | | |

“Hey, Stromer,” Alex answers, pulling Dylan out of the memory. “Everything good?”

Dylan huffs a laugh, scratches at the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah, hey.”

“What’s up?” Alex says, and he sounds a little concerned, which is probably how Dylan would react, too, if his ex called him out of nowhere at eight p.m. on a Sunday.

“No, it’s not bad,” Dylan says quickly. “At least I don’t think so? I mean, it might be a little weird but––”

Alex sighs, and Dylan can almost feel the exasperation. “Dude, spit it out.”

“I got traded,” Dylan says. “To Chicago. I’m on the first flight out tomorrow.”

It’s quiet for a beat too long, even for Alex. Dylan pulls the phone away from his ear to make sure he didn’t do anything like accidentally hang up, but the timer is still ticking up.

One-oh-three. One-oh-four. One-oh-five ––

Alex clears his throat. “Are you serious?”

Dylan laughs a little. “Nah, I called the wrong Alex,” he says, an attempt to diffuse the tension. “I actually got traded to Columbus, my bad.”

“Why the fuck would you have Wennberg’s number?” Alex asks, and he’s laughing too, now. “But, hold on, you’re –”

“A Chicago Blackhawk,” Dylan finishes, the words feeling foreign as they leave his mouth. He probably should've said it out loud before this.

“Holy shit,” Alex says, softly, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. “Dylan, this is awesome.”

Tension bleeds out of him when he hears that, the ache in his chest diffusing into something more like comfort. “You think so?”

“Yeah, dude, this is – Holy shit,” he says again. “Yo, skip the hotel, I have an extra room at my place.”

“I can’t,” Dylan says, instantly, because the thought of going from _nothing_ to _everything_ with Alex that fast makes him just the slightest bit nauseous. “I mean, I don’t want to get in your way or anything, you know?”

“Bullshit,” Alex says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Erie forever, dude.”

“Ottos for life,” Dylan says, dutifully, then sighs. “Yeah, okay. Just send me the address.”

“Cool,” Alex says, then there’s some tapping and a buzz in Dylan’s ear.

Dylan confirms he’s got it, then says, “Hey, listen, I just –”

“We’ll figure it out,” Alex says, reading the play, and maybe Dylan’s mind.

Even though he knows Alex can’t do that.

“It’ll be great to see you,” Alex says, and the words hang heavy in Dylan’s head.

“Yeah, man,” Dylan agrees. “You, too.”

 

___

 

Monday is a blur to say the least. He and Perls get to the airport before the ass-crack of dawn and touch down in Chicago, and it’s a whirlwind from there –– getting to the practice rink, meeting with the equipment managers, getting vaguely settled before heading out to start practice.

The other guys have been on the ice for almost twenty minutes, and Dylan doesn’t realize he’s looking for Alex until they make eye contact. Alex nods, Dylan smiles, and that’s that.

Easier than he’d thought it’d be, really.

After practice there’s _so_ much media, and even _more_ equipment managing, and he’s running on approximately two and a half hours of sleep, which is why –

“You look like a dead man walking, Stromer,” he hears Alex say behind him, and he can’t help but groan.

“I feel like it,” he says, turning around and finally getting an actual, solid look at him. He’s in his usual cool-down gear, towel draped around his neck, snapback on backwards.

He looks good, Dylan realizes.

Like, he’s always looked good to Dylan, that’s not anything new, but, man. The NHL sure has been kind to him.

“Good to see you, Dyl,” Alex says, pulling Dylan into a hug and Dylan hates how easily he sinks into it.

He pulls away after settling into it for a beat too long, clearing his throat. “You too, Binks.”

“You’ve probably got tons of shit to do still,” Alex says, “but I’m hanging around for physio if you wanna just head back together.”

Dylan shrugs, tucking his hands in his hoodie pocket just for something to do. “Sounds good with me.”

“Sweet,” Alex says, heading backwards out of the room. “Meet me in the lounge when you’re done.”

Dylan nods, then gets dragged in yet another direction for the fifth time that day.

 

___

 

Alex, at some point, bought a fucking Porsche.

“You really bought a fucking Porsche,” Dylan says, eyebrows raised as he stands in front of Alex’s car. “You got your NHL check and really thought ‘huh, you know what I need? A fucking sportscar.’”

“Fuck off,” Alex says, but he’s laughing as he unlocks the doors. “You can walk home.”

“Uber is a thing that exists, that I know how to operate, in case you forgot,” says Dylan, ducking into the car and pointedly ignoring the fact that he called it _home_.

There are Gatorade bottles and protein bar wrappers on the ground, so it’s just like the old beat up Honda they drove around in Erie. Except this is a fucking _Porsche_ that Alex is treating like their old beat up Honda, which blows Dylan’s mind in about eight different ways.

He sighs, letting his head rest against the seat back as Alex drives them out of the parking lot. There are fans at the end of the driveway, most of them in at least one article of Blackhawks clothing – also what he thinks is an Otters jersey, which is just plain dedication – and Alex hesitates, makes like he’s about to stop, but just waves and turns out of the lot as some of them try to approach the car.

“Happen often?” Dylan asks, peeking in the side mirror at the fans as they fade out of view.

Alex sighs. “Almost every practice. I stop every once in a while, but you’ve gotta be exhausted,” he says, stopping at a light.

“No big deal, mister popular,” Dylan mocks. “Bet they had to edit some little spreadsheet when you got this thing.”

“Shut up,” Alex says, shaking his head with a smile as the light turns green.

“Dear Internet,” Dylan says, making his voice ungodly levels of squeaky, trying not to laugh. “Today after practice, our incredible number twelve, Alex DeBrincat, drove out of practice in a _Porsche._  Can you believe it!”

“You’re so annoying,” Alex laughs.

“Our little cat man is all grown up!” Dylan continues, clasping his hands and bringing them up by his face, leaning in and batting his eyelashes at Alex for good measure. “Xoxo, gossip girl.”

“You never even watched Gossip Girl!” says Alex, merging onto the freeway.

“I heard it enough with all the times you watched it,” Dylan says, and there it is. He was wondering when the first ‘like things were’ would slip. At least it was relatively tame.

“Better than you and Mighty Ducks,” Alex counters, and Dylan scoffs.

“Mighty Ducks is iconic,” he says, pressing on the touch screen of Alex’s stupid fucking Porsche, turning on the first radio station he can find.

The ride isn’t much longer, even in traffic, and by the time they’re pulling into Alex’s parking spot of this bougie-ass condo complex, Dylan’s half dead standing up. He stops himself from leaning against the elevator walls, because that’s definitely a recipe for falling asleep.

“I just got the second room cleaned up after my parents left last weekend, so you should be pretty set,” Alex says, turning his key in the lock and pushing the door open just a little before pushing it all the way open. “Ralphie must be sleeping, otherwise he’d be all over you.”

“Can you blame him?” Dylan says, toeing off his shoes at the door. “I’m irresistible.”

Alex laughs, this little nervous thing he always does when he doesn’t know what to say, then whistles, high and warbly as they move further into the house. They pass a few doors – closets, by the looks of it – before they end up in the open space of the living room.

“Ralphie!” he calls, then makes a kissy noise. “Where are ya, bud?”

Dylan’s barely able to take in the room around him before he hears the jingle of Ralphie’s tags, the click of his nails across the laminate and then Dylan’s got paws on his hips, pushing him back before going in for more love.

“I’ve missed you too, bud,” Dylan says, scratching him behind the ears.

“Ralphie, down,” Alex says, and Ralphie listens, puts his paws on the ground and looks up at Alex, head tilting. “Be nice.”

“He’s fine,” Dylan defends, rubbing Ralphie’s head again before sitting at one of the bar stools at the kitchen counter. “Right, bub? You’re the best boy.”

“Would the best boy chew up my new sneakers instead of the millions of toys I’ve bought him?” Alex says, all baby talk as he pets Ralphie himself.

Dylan’s heart definitely doesn’t do something dumb. Nope. Not at all.

Okay, it totally does, and it’s awkwardly quiet while his heart is doing the dumb thing, but Alex breaks the silence first, and Dylan’s grateful. He clears his throat, scratching at the back of his neck.

“Anyway, I’m gonna take him o-u-t really quick,” Alex says, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m sure you probably wanna rest, but you can come with if you want.”

And, like, he’d love to. He loves Ralphie and he’d like to be outside for longer than a walk from the rink to the car, but he really is beat. Even the thought of moving more makes him yawn.

“Raincheck?” Dylan says, through the yawn. “I could use a nap.”

“For sure. You’ll be that first door,” Alex says, pointing just to the right of the kitchen. “There should be clean towels in your bathroom if you want to shower. My mom got a bit stir crazy while she was here.”

“Tracey’s an angel,” Dylan says, no hesitation.

“Huge mood,” Alex says with a laugh, then grabs Ralphie’s leash off the hook by the door. “We’ll be back soon.”

Dylan sighs as soon as the door shuts behind them, scrubbing a hand at his face before looking around. Alex’s place is nice, well-kept yet still lived-in. There’s a few magnets on the fridge, some dishes in the sink, a pile of mail on the end of the counter.

He gets up, walks the couple paces into the living room where he can see what Alex means by the crazy amount of toys he has for Ralphie. There’s a giant bean bag that he’s sure is meant for people, but Ralphie has definitely taken hostage if the blanket covered in dog fur is anything to go by.

The view is nothing to scoff at either; floor to ceiling windows reveal the lake on his left, and on his right, skyscrapers that he has to crane his neck to see the tops of.

“Definitely not in Glendale anymore, Toto,” he says to himself, yawning again as he makes his way back through the living room and into the door Alex pointed to earlier.

As soon as he lays down, he takes a second to flip through this round of hundreds of notifications on his phone. Some goodbyes from his old Arizona teammates, missed calls from numbers he doesn’t know, and so many Snapchats that his app keeps crashing.

He feels a little bad that he doesn’t feel bad. Sure, he was close to guys in Arizona, but this? This feels like a fever dream. This doesn’t happen.

But of course it happens like this. Where everything still feels close to breaking, or like it’s never been fixed.

Like he doesn’t have regret pooling in his stomach every time he even looks at Alex.

He clicks through the unimportant messages with a sigh, sends off a update message to his mom, and by the time his phone screen times out, he’s dead asleep.

 

ººº

 

When Dylan wakes on his own several hours later, the sky is turning orange as he blinks his eyes open, and the clock on the side table saying he was asleep for far too long. There’s murmuring in the next room, just barely drifting into his room from him leaving it a bit open.

“Yeah, he’s in the spare room right now,” Dylan hears, followed by footsteps of Alex walking down the hallway, fading toward the living room. “Probably. He was exhausted.”

It’s quiet for a beat before Alex sighs. “I don’t know,” he says. “It’s not like it’s all sunshine and rainbows, mom. It’s still a little weird after– y’know.”

Dylan shouldn’t be listening to this. He doesn’t _want_ to know how much Alex doesn’t want him here. This was a mistake. He should’ve just gone to the hotel, thanked Alex for the thought and –

“No, no, I’m sorry,” Alex is saying. “I guess I just–” another sigh. “I missed him.”

Oh.

“No, that’s okay,” he says, “I should probably get him up soon anyway. Order dinner or something.”

Fuck, he’s probably going to come in here then, Dylan reasons. He’s always been a bad fake-sleeper.

When Alex laughs, the sound is closer to Dylan’s door than it was before. “Love you, too, momma. I’ll talk to you later.”

Dylan’s wrapping himself in the duvet, turned onto his stomach, trying to hide his face as best as he can when he hears Alex whistle, presumably to get Ralphie’s attention.

“Go get Dyl, bub,” he says, softly. “Daddy wants food, go wake him up.”

Dylan can’t help but smile into the duvet as the door pushes open, hears the jingle of Ralphie’s tags as he steps into the room.

“I bet he’s not even asleep, just go jump on him,” Alex says, a little louder as he follows Ralphie in.

Definitely the worst fake-sleeper. Ralphie listens, hopping up on the bed and standing right on the backs of his thighs.

“Get him,” Alex encourages. “Go get him.”

Ralphie snuffs, pounces right on top of Dylan’s back, and even if he was actually asleep, he’s not anymore. He groans, turning over as best as he can with twenty pounds of fluff trying lay directly on top of him.

“Hi, buddy,” Dylan says, voice scratchy with sleep as he brings a hand up to rub Ralphie’s head. Ralphie sticks his cold nose right on Dylan’s cheek, licking his face when he doesn’t get a reaction. “Okay, okay, I get it. I’m up.”

Ralphie bounces away from him eventually, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he looks at Alex. Dylan’s eyes follow Ralphie’s, taking in Alex standing in the doorway, arms crossed and leaning against the door jamb, the smallest smile on his face.

“Feel better?” Alex asks when Dylan sits up, scrubs a hand at his face.

“Vaguely more human, yeah,” Dylan says, popping his neck. “Starving, though.”

“Same,” says Alex. “I was gonna order in, if you wanna hop in on that.”

Dylan hums, tossing the duvet off and swinging his legs out of bed. “Yeah, definitely. I’ll be out in a sec.”

Alex nods, and for a split second, it looks like he’s going to say something else, but thinks better of it before heading out into the living room.

He’s out in the common space five minutes later, hair tamed as best as it can be but still a bit of a post-nap mess. Alex is sitting at the kitchen counter, scrolling on his phone, but he looks up when he hears Dylan come in.

“There’s some good delivery places around here that are chill with the diet plan,” Alex says, moving to get up. “I’ve got menus in the–”

“Drawer next to the fridge?” Dylan finishes. He’d bet nothing’s changed since the last time he was in Chicago. Different apartment, same Alex.

“Uh, yeah,” Alex says, sounding a little caught. Like somehow in the last six months of them not dating, Dylan has forgotten every little thing he’s learned over the last three years.

It’s frustrating, and Dylan can feel the other shoe dangling in the air, and drops it his goddamn self.

“This is fucking stupid,” he says, running a hand through his hair exasperatedly. “Can we please just be best friends again?”

Alex stops, blinks once, mouth opening and closing before finally saying, “I didn’t think that we ever stopped.”

Even he doesn’t sound too convinced.

Dylan laughs, just once, a little sharper than he intended.

“Don’t be dumb, dude” he says. “We both stopped. Even I can admit that.”

And Alex doesn’t even try to fight that time, because he knows Dylan’s right. It takes two, and Alex can’t say otherwise when he was the other half of this snapstreak-breaking, leaving-on-read, occasional-Insta-like half-assed ‘best friendship.’

“Sorry,” Dylan says, and he mostly means it. “I just– I miss my best friend.”

Alex sighs, scrubs a hand at his face, takes his hat off and runs his hand through his hair, laughs a little, but there’s nothing humorous about this.

“We can’t just go back,” he says, like he’s almost upset about it. Like he wants to, but he can’t find the words to admit it. “Not to how it was before.”

“We can _try_ ,” Dylan says. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but come on, Binks. No distance is bound to help.”

Alex tilts his head a little, considering. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, that’d be– Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Dylan says, rolling his eyes a little. “So provocative.”

“Shut up and grab the menus, asshole,” Alex says, shaking his head.

 

___

 

So, it’s back to normal. Mostly.

Okay, so back to normal might be a reach, but it’s less tense. Easier to settle in. Easier to let it hit him that –

“Holy fuck,” Dylan says as the crowd roars as the anthem starts.

He can feel his pulse in his ears, and there are goosebumps on his arms. Like, sure, he’s played at the United Center before, but there’s just something about being on this bench, being on this side of it.

“Welcome to Chicago, baby,” Seabs says, kicking the back of Dylan’s skate and bringing him out of his head a bit.

Dylan just smiles, and buckles in for the ride.

The game itself is… A bit of a disaster to say the least.

Like, it’s not the worst thing he’s ever dealt with – plus, he scored, which like, take that Arizona - but it would’ve been nice to get the win.

Alex, on the other hand, is grumpy.

Losing three of the last four will do that to him, Dylan knows that, he’s encountered that. What’s hard, though, is trying to gauge what kind of grumpy Alex is here.

There’s the ‘get-it-back’ kind, where he’ll throw himself into workouts, push himself that little bit harder.

After that, there’s the ‘laundry-list’ kind of grumpy, where even though he’s never worn a C, he’ll lay into you about every little thing like it’s sewn on everything he owns.

The next level – Dylan’s favorite – is the ‘blast-it’ kind of grumpy, where he throws on his guilty pleasure Spotify playlist, cranks it as high as whatever speaker he has can go, and sings as loud as he can.

But the scariest one, which Dylan would bet is the one they’re dealing with, is the silent level. Head down, only cliches to media, annoyed with nearly everything that happens, and there’s not many ways out of it.

It took Dylan going through the silent level twice to find what works, but by now, he’s got it down to a science.

“Cat’s doing the thing again,” Dylan hears Hayden say to someone from the stall next to Alex’s empty one.

“How long’s he been in there?” Fortin asks.

Hayden hums. “Five minutes at least. Usually he’s in and out in, like, three minutes, tops.”

“Wait,” Dylan says, “sorry, where?”

Hayden sighs. “Cat’s in the cold tub, being all broody.”

Yep. Silent level it is, then.

“I got him,” Dylan says, standing from his stall and pulling on a hoodie.

Fortin’s up soon after, getting in front of him with a hand on his arm in warning. “Woah, I wouldn’t if I were you. He’ll –”

Dylan quirks an eyebrow. “Wave me off, ignore everything I say, pretend I’m not there and maybe, if I’m lucky, tell me to fuck off?”

“Juniors,” Hayden says, like it finally clicked that Dylan might know what to do here. “Forts, let him go.”

Fortin puts his hands up in mock surrender. “If you say so.”

So Dylan goes, and sure shit, Alex is sitting in the cold tub, shivering like his life depends on it. He glares daggers at Dylan the second he walks in, and Dylan holds his hands up.

“Easy there, big guy,” Dylan says, sitting in the trainers chair across the room. “I’ll leave you alone in a second. Just came to check in on you.”

Alex sighs, brings his knees up to his chest, the ice thudding against the side of the tub.

“Forts tried to stop me from coming in here,” Dylan says, conversationally, even though he knows Alex won’t answer. “You bite the kid’s head off or something?”

Alex doesn’t say anything, as expected, but Dylan keeps going.

“Remember, like, the end of your rookie season, when you scared the shit out of Maksi?” Dylan says, grabbing a roll of athletic tape from the table next to him, twirling it on his finger. “That blowout win over Windsor and you dropped ‘em against that one guy for goin’ after Davo?”

Alex looks at him, chin resting on his knees.

“And when we came back to the room after the end of the period, you were just,” he gestures to Alex, “doing this, blank stare and everything.”

It’s quiet for a second, save for the little bit of overflow noise from the room.

“Me and T basically had to drag you out and get you dressed again,” Dylan continues. “And you just go out there and get three points like nothing ever happened.”

Alex smiles, then, just a little. “Didn’t Q say I was possessed?”

“Hundred percent,” Dylan says, leaning forward and resting his arms on his legs. “Think we had Maksi for a second on that, too.”

“He was too gullible,” Alex says, shifting a little.

Dylan laughs. “With a brother like Q, it makes sense.”

The silence is nice for the thirty seconds it lasts before Alex’s timer is going off.

“I’ll drive home,” Dylan says as Alex stands up, wraps a towel around his waist. “Take your time.”

He turns to leave, and he’s almost at the door when he gets hit in the back of the head, presumably with an ice cube, just as Alex says, “Hey.”

Dylan turns, looks a the little smirk on Alex’s face and smiles. “What?”

“Thanks,” Alex says, scratching at the back of his neck.

“Don’t mention it,” Dylan says, tapping the door frame on his way out.

When he gets back in the room and makes to head for the shower, Fortin looks at him like he’s surprised he’s still in one piece. Dylan just shrugs, grabs his towel and goes to rinse away the loss.

After his own shower, Alex is vaguely more human and less Hulk, but Dylan keeps his word and drives home anyway, giving Alex something to distract himself with as he directs Dylan when to turn.

“Want me to get Ralphie when we get upstairs?” Dylan offers, parking the car and unclipping his seatbelt.

Alex hums, climbing out of the car. “He’d probably give you a hard time,” he says. “I’ll get him.”

The thing is, he knew that.

It’s just the perfect set-up for phase two of his nearly foolproof plan.

They get upstairs and Dylan takes Alex’s bag as he gets Ralphie ready to go. The smallest smile comes to Alex’s face as he’s down at Ralph’s level, gives him a few extra scritches behind the ear before he clips the leash.

“I’m gonna have him out for a bit,” Alex says as he turns to leave. “I want to sleep in tomorrow.”

Dylan laughs at that. “You’re such a dad now.”

“You say that now, but at sunrise, he’s your son,” Alex jokes, and then they’re gone, door swinging shut behind them.

Autopilot takes over as he walks into the kitchen, completely unsurprised to find that Alex’s cabinets and cupboards are set up exactly as he’s always set them up. He grabs down the things he needs, a mixing bowl from the cabinet under the island, throws on a playlist on the bluetooth speaker and gets to work.

It’s been a while since he’s had to do this, but it’s easy enough to remember. Besides, pancake batter isn’t the hardest thing in the world. Aside from the normal chicken-and-pasta every hockey player knows how to make, this might the easiest and most second nature thing Dylan can make.

He’s a little out of practice on timing, so the pan is still warming up by the time he’s got the batter done. He takes the opportunity of the free second to fuck around on his phone, and it’s fun to see that someone from the Hawks has sent him a picture of him and Alex after he scored.

 _In case you wanted something to post :)_ the accompanying text read, a gentle nudge that he’s allowed to do that now. They’re selling the best friends angle hard, and Dylan can see why, just in the way he’s looking at Alex in this celly.

He saves the picture, sends back a thank you, and goes back to his pancakes.

There are a few done and on a plate under a towel by the time Alex walks back in with Ralphie, who immediately runs into the kitchen in search of a treat, leaving Alex in the doorway in his dust.

“Were you a good boy?” Dylan asks, turning away from the stove for a second to scratch at Ralphie’s ears. “Hmm? Did daddy say you can have a treat?”

When he looks up, confirmation that he can give Ralphie one of the milk bones in the jar on the counter, Alex is wide-eyed, looking at the kitchen counter.

Dylan gives Ralphie a treat anyway.

“You’re–” Alex starts, a small smile starting to stretch across his lips. “Wow.”

Dylan flushes, shrugs a little as he flips one of the pancakes on the pan.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Alex says, and Dylan just shrugs again.

“I wanted to,” he says. “I haven’t had them in a while, you did that weird grumpy thing again, so–”

“Fuck _off_ ,” Alex says, with a laugh.

“So, pancakes,” Dylan says, putting the couple pancakes left in the pan on the plate.

He separates them between two plates, handing one to Alex before grabbing some silverware from the drawer.

They head to the couch, tucked under separate throw blankets, eating in silence as Ralphie tries to steal bites from his spot between them.

“Miracle?” Dylan asks, through a bite of pancake.

Alex hums, smiling as he dips a triangle in syrup. “That I’m not dying because of your cooking?” he asks, then pops the pancake in his mouth. “Yeah, probably.”

Dylan rolls his eyes, takes that as the thank you he knows that it’s meant to be, and turns on the TV anyway.

 

___

 

So, they play some pretty fucking gorgeous hockey together. Not like it counts for anything because they can’t seem to buy a win, but god does it feel good to connect when they do.

It feels even better when they finally, _finally_ remember how to win some fucking games.

All things considered, being in Chicago is nice. He’s got Alex on his wing more often than not, they’re finally clicking together, and for the first time in his entire NHL existence, as sparse as that may be, Dylan feels like he belongs.

Which is exactly why something like this was bound to happen, he reasons.

They’re at some bar in the West Loop, what looks like half of the younger guys on the team huddled around Alex, goading him into birthday shots and drinks that Dylan knows he wouldn’t accept if they wouldn’t have won.

He looks good. Too good, or maybe Dylan’s drink is hitting him too hard, too soon, but Alex is wearing this light purple shirt that’s making his eyes impossibly blue and Dylan’s stomach is flipping in a way that has nothing to do with the drink in his hand.

Alex eventually makes it away from the team, closer to Dylan where he’s talking to Gus, flush faced, beer in his hand and smile on his face.

“How’re ya doing there, big guy?” Dylan asks, and Alex just grins even wider.

“Good,” Alex says, leaning into Dylan a bit. “Really good.”

Dylan laughs, lets his arm fall across Alex’s shoulders.

“Let’s dance,” Alex says, pulling away and taking Dylan’s hand, tugging him toward Hayds and Perls. “C’mon, I wanna dance.”

“You’re an _awful_ dancer,” Dylan says, but he goes anyway.

He gets shoved in the middle of the throng of people, Alex right in front of him, and Dylan can smell his cologne with how close he is and he just–

He can’t do this.

He thought he could, in his defense. He’s been so good about all of this. About living in close quarters with him, about spotting him for workouts, about seeing him all dressed up in game day suits. It’s all been relatively fine, really.

But this? This is hard.

This like every basement party they ever went to in Erie. It’s like the summer after they won the OHL, weeks spent at the Strome family cabin, sunkissed and relaxed.

It’s like home.

“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” Alex says, bringing him back to the bar, back to the moment.

Dylan furrows his eyebrows. “Like what?”

Alex smiles, a hint of humor in it. “Like you used to.”

And for all that Dylan’s brain short circuits, he finds the wherewithal to shrug and ruffle Alex’s hair instead of thinking about it. Mostly because it almost feels like something he would imagine.

He’s projecting, right? Either he’s projecting, or Alex can still read him like a goddamn book, but no matter which it is, it’s probably not the best for this whole ‘having-feelings-for-your-ex’ thing.

“I’m getting another drink,” Alex announces, draining his glass as if he didn’t just fry Dylan’s brain with a single sentence. “Coming?”

He nods, autopilot, and follows Alex through and to the bar, allowing himself to enjoy the moment, and maybe downing the rest of his drink in an attempt to do just that.

 

ººº

 

“Stromer, I want _ice cream_ ,” Alex says, head heavy on Dylan’s shoulder in the back of the cab Dylan managed to get him into. It’s probably something close to three in the morning, and this cab driver seems more amused than anything.

“It’s so late, Binks,” Dylan tries, but Alex on a mission is a forced to be reckoned with.

“But it’s my _birthday_ ,” Alex says, like that’s the exception of all exceptions. He sits up, leans forward a little wobbly. “S’cuse me, would you be able to stop at a Baskin Robbins? We’ll get you somethin’ if you wait.”

“Alex,” Dylan laughs.

The cab driver just shrugs, smiling. “Why not,” he says, hooking a right. “I got nothing else to do.”

So that’s how he and Alex end up in the back of a cab, one of those mini ice cream cakes in Dylan’s lap, their cab driver munching on an ice cream cone.

“Happy now?” Dylan asks, reaching over and stealing Alex’s spoon out of his hand and taking some of the chocolate ice cream from his dish.

Alex hums, and he’s got a smile on his face when Dylan looks over. “Duh.”

They get upstairs, and Alex barely has his coat off before he’s grabbing for the ice cream cake from Dylan’s hands. Dylan lets him, and it takes until Alex is opening the box for him to realize that Ralphie isn’t trotting up to see them.

Alex must see this, because he just hums and says, “He’s with my parents at their AirBnB. I figured it’d be a late night.”

“Thought of everything, huh,” Dylan says, finally getting his own coat off, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on the back of the barstool. “Twenty-one going on forty-one.”

“I didn’t see you worryin’ about it when you were pushin’ shots into my hand,” Alex says, rolling his eyes and going to grab a knife.

Dylan’s fiddling with the buttons on his sleeve, tugging his sleeves up, folding them over each other at his elbow. “What kind of best friend would I be if you came home only a little drunk on your birthday?”

Something falls against the counter, and Dylan looks up, only to catch Alex looking away as soon as he does, turning back to the cake.

It’s a little weird, Dylan won’t lie, but he forgets about it as he watches while it takes some effort for Alex to cut through the cake, still too frozen for it to be easy to eat. He’s pouting a little when he puts it in his bowl, walking around Dylan’s side of the counter.

“Don’t tell me you’re about to do what I think you’re gonna do,” Dylan says, watching Alex walk over to the microwave and put his bowl inside.

“It’s too frozen!” Alex says, punching the time in and hitting start.

Dylan shakes his head, moving around Alex to grab a spoon – and eat his ice cream cake cold, like a normal fucking person – but he ends up tripping over one of Ralphie’s toys, just barely catching himself on the counter, right in Alex’s space.

Alex doesn’t say anything, Dylan sure as fuck doesn’t say anything, and then they’re close enough that all of his senses are screaming _Alex Alex Alex_.

He’s not sure who leans in, not sure it matters, but it’s over as soon as it happens, Dylan jumping away at the sound of the microwave going off behind them.

Alex’s eyes are wide, flush rising to his cheeks before he clears his throat, turning around to grab his bowl from the microwave.

It’s quiet as they eat their cake, only spoons clinking against their dining ware as they eat. The thing is, Dylan’s not sure what type of quiet it is. It’s not too awkward, but it’s definitely more than the bone-deep exhausted silence that usually surrounds this counter for post-game shakes.

It’s a charged silence, tension evident and almost able to be cut with a knife.

Dylan hates it, because it’s not them. It’s awkward and makes his skin crawl and reminds him too much of last summer, spent laying looking at the ceiling while the dates for his Chicago flight went unused.

They finish up and Dylan washes their dishes just for something to do, while Alex slides the box back together before throwing the cake in the freezer.

He’s drying off his hands when Alex clears his throat. “I’m probably gonna head to bed,” he says, tucking his hands in his pockets.

“Yeah, same,” Dylan says, scratching at the back of his neck. “You’re doing breakfast with Jonny tomorrow, right?”

“Right, yeah,” Alex says, like he almost forgot. “You’ll be here when Ralph gets dropped off, right?”

“Should be,” Dylan agrees.

Alex nods. “Cool. I’m just, uh,” he starts, nodding down the hall.

“Yeah,” Dylan says, dumbly. “Happy birthday, Al.”

Alex smiles, tired in a way that’s not from the late night. “Thanks, Stromer.”

 

ººº

 

Dylan’s half awake when the sun is threatening to rise through his dumb floor-to-ceiling windows, or maybe he never actually fell asleep, but either way, he can feel the headache setting in right behind his eyes and regret pooling in his stomach.

He can’t even tell if he made the right decision, breaking the moment. He loves Alex still, that’s not anything new to him. The thought that he ever stopped loving Alex never even crossed his mind. He just learned how to live without him, as hard as that was, and as much as he didn’t want to do that.

Being here, playing with him and fucking _living_ with him has proven that maybe he was never good at that in the first place.

Dylan turns over with a sigh, burrowing himself in the duvet as he reaches for his phone on the side table, unlocking it and heading to his photos.

It only takes a few taps to get to the folder that has all his pictures of him and Alex.

His personal favorite was from their last day in Erie, walking along the beach, hair still badly bleached. Dylan had shaved already, but Alex hadn’t, still just as scruffy as the day they were eliminated. They were sitting close to the edge of the water, the May sunshine hitting their face, waves crashing in front of them -- Dylan can almost feel it now, how the disappointment to how their season ended was crashing away with with water.

Alex is behind him, arms wrapped around Dylan’s bare shoulders, They’re both smiling, Dylan at the camera, Alex at Dylan as he presses a kiss to Dylan’s cheek. Dylan’s hat is a little off-kilter, a little crooked from where Alex unintentionally pushed it.

He sighs, swiping the picture down and locking his phone, trying to cling to the warmth he gets from revisiting the moment.

It’s gone by the time he closes his eyes.

By the time Alex gets back from breakfast, Dylan is fast asleep on the couch with Ralph cuddled up next to him. He’ll pretend, for his and Alex’s sake, that he didn’t hear the shutter of Alex’s phone camera.

 

___

 

Disappointment is burning in his chest as he makes it back to the room after the loss in Winnipeg. Two penalties, one that was scored on, and another fucking loss. It makes him want to have a fucking hissyfit, to throw his stick and kick down a bench, but that won’t get him anywhere.

Brooding won’t either, but it’s the safest option.

Except, evidently it isn’t.

Dylan’s quiet the whole bus ride back to the hotel, headphones cranked to a comfortable-yet-still-drowning level, and he must be radiating whatever mood he’s in, because not even Alex tries to sit next to him.

He’s bone tired by the time they get up to their room, ready to just climb into bed and forget about this, move on to the next one but –

“Okay, what’s your deal?” Alex says, when Dylan swears under his breath after dropping his toothpaste.

Dylan sighs, a little sharper than strictly necessary. “I’m just tired, don’t worry about it.”

Alex doesn’t buy it for a second, skeptically looking up from his phone as Dylan mills around the room, trying to get ready for bed.

Dylan scrubs a hand at his face, already hating how he’s letting this affect him. It’s just a loss, it’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with before, but he can’t help but feel worse about this for some reason.

He’s reaching for his tablet, trying to pack it away so they can just hit it in the morning, when he knocks over the bottle of Gatorade on the side table which – of course – wasn’t entirely closed. The cap falls off just enough to spill some on the duvet before he scrambles to pick it up.

He’s laughing as he brushes the liquid from the comforter. “Can’t fucking do anything right, huh,” he says, mostly to himself. “Can’t help the team win, can’t get my head out of my ass.”

In the bed next to his, Alex groans.

“Why do you always have to think like that?” he says, and there’s a bite to his tone that Dylan’s pretty sure has never been directed at him. “You’re doing fine, Dylan, what’s the fucking deal?”

All Dylan can do is stop, look up from where there’s still fucking Gatorade dripping down his hand and furrow his eyebrows a little.

“What are you _talking_ about?” Dylan asks, but his gut knows.

Alex shakes his head, laughing a little.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” he says, like it’s just that easy. Maybe it is. “You’re getting in that mood again where you think you’re not good enough or whatever, but you know what you’re doing. One bad game doesn’t change that.”

“Maybe, but it doesn’t fucking help it either,” Dylan spits back, twisting the cap back on the bottle before setting it down. “One bad game was all it took to be labeled a bust where nobody gave a shit about hockey, no telling what it’s going to do here.”

“Like what, send you down again?” Alex says. “They’re not going to do that. I know it’s not juniors anymore, you’re not the top guy anymore, but Jesus, Dylan.”

Dylan clenches his jaw, crossing his arms, takes a shuddering. “Don’t hold back,” he says, a little tight. “You have more to say, so say it.”

Alex rolls his eyes, shaking his head a little as he pushes himself out of bed, heading to the desk and grabbing his water bottle from it. He’s stalling, Dylan knows he is.

“It’s ridiculous that your first jump after a bad game is that they’re just going to get rid of you,” Alex says, more of an observation than anything. “Arizona must have really fucked you up.”

“Like you’d know literally _anything_ about that,” Dylan says, proud of himself for not taking it any farther than that. For not mentioning that while Dylan was in the AHL, Alex was playing with Olympians and Stanley Cup Champions.

Alex laughs, just once, sharp. “Because you never fucking clued me in on what it was like,” he spits. “You got sent down and then shut yourself down, and then shut _us_ down. I was in the dark for weeks, Dylan, all the way until the break-up.”

There it is.

Dylan’s stomach drops, chewing at the inside of his cheek, looking down at his hands.

“Fuck, that’s–” Alex says, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re right,” Dylan says, throat a little tight. “It wasn’t fair to you. None of it was, we just didn’t realize it soon enough.”

“I just don’t know why you didn’t let me in,” Alex says softly. “That’s what I was so confused about. You just– you wouldn’t let anyone help, just threw yourself into hockey and away from everything else.”

“How was I supposed to go to my boyfriend who was playing crazy good hockey on a line with Patrick fucking Sharp and whine about this, Alex?” Dylan says, picking at a hangnail. “I know it’s stupid, okay, but I wasn’t going to drag you down with me.”

Alex pauses, uncrosses his arms and holds them out. “Ship kinda sailed there, bud.”

“Gathered that,” he says, sitting down on his bed heavily.

It’s quiet for a beat, Alex still leaning against the desk with his arms crossed, and Dylan can’t help but sniff an unamused laugh.

“Look, you weren’t the only one in the dark then,” Dylan says. “It’s not an excuse, or whatever it just–” he stops, scrubs a hand at his face. “I guess it just weighed a little heavier than expected to be slumming in the AHL while my best friend is an NHL captain, and my boyfriend was out there proving why nobody should’ve fucking passed on him.”

Dylan looks up, and Alex doesn’t even look like he’s about to interrupt, so he keeps going.

“I know that those are _my_ hang-ups,” Dylan says, shrugging. “I shouldn’t have taken them out on us, but I did. And I’d take it back in a second if I could, but I can’t, Alex. I want to, so badly, but I just–”

“No, I get it,” Alex says, softly. “It took me a bit, but I’m there now.”

Dylan sighs, tension starting to clear, even if it’s still there in the throbbing behind his eyes. Still, he looks at Alex, meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” Alex says, sincerely, and something in Dylan’s chest settles. “I didn’t mean to–”

“No, it’s okay,” Dylan says, because it is. Because Alex never held back before, why should he start now? “I’m glad you did.”

Alex nods then, and it’s silent, just the whirr of the radiator before Dylan finally moves in the direction of his bed, turning down the duvet and climbing in. Alex does the same, flipping off the light once he’s settled, leaving Dylan in the pale blue glow of his phone screen.

A minute passes, or maybe it’s ten, but eventually Alex turns over, away from where he was facing the window and hums.

“Hey, Dyls?” he says, muffled by where his face is pressed into his pillow.

Dylan looks over, even though he can’t see much of him. “Yeah?”

Alex pauses, takes a deep breath. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Something in Dylan’s chest aches, and he’s still for long enough that his phone screen times out.

“Me, too,” he says, finally.

 

___

 

So, things are actually back to normal. For real this time.

They’re winning more than they’re losing, they’re fighting for a playoff spot, and everything feels like it fits. Like he’s where he’s supposed to be, at home and on the ice.

They’ve got a two day break to shake off their loss to Anaheim, and by the mid-morning on day one, Alex is twitchy. He’s mulling around the house, picking things up and putting them somewhere else, only to put them back in their original spots; he’s pretty sure every surface has been cleaned three times. It’s driving Dylan nuts.

“Will you stop feng shui-ing the house and sit down for, like, maybe three seconds?” Dylan asks, pausing the episode of Gossip Girl he was watching with Ralph.

Alex sighs, runs a hand through his hair before coming and sitting on the couch next to him.

“I hate sitting still,” Alex says, like the last few hours hasn’t proved that.

But like, Dylan gets it. It’s a tight race now, anything goes. The least he could do is get Alex’s mind off of it.

“Hey, didn’t you say you had wanted to paint my room before I got here?” Dylan says, turning to face him. “If we start now, we could probably be done by tonight.”

Alex tilts his head, considering. “If you don’t mind?”

“Nah, anything to make you less squirrely,” Dylan says, and Alex laughs.

So, that’s how they end up at what feels like the only Home Depot in all of Chicago, going through paint swatches. Dylan inserts his opinion where he sees fit, but Alex pays more of the rent than Dylan does, regardless of if he’s the one staying in said room.

They decide on a cool grey, which Alex thought was blue at first, which sparks a five minute argument, much to the disdain of the Home Depot employee at the paint desk.

It’s impressive, on that front, that they make it out of Home Depot with everything they need and in one piece. In good spirits, even.

Before long, they’ve got most of the furniture moved to the middle of the room, tarps and baseboards taped down. Dylan doesn’t even think twice about grabbing two of his old Arizona shirts out of his things, tossing one to Alex before pulling one on himself.

Alex looks up, shirt in hand and eyebrow quirked, and Dylan just shrugs.

“Gotta wear something you don’t care about getting messed up,” Dylan says, smirking a little.

Alex smiles, shaking his head before pulling his shirt off and pull the Coyotes one on.

Dylan doesn’t even pretend to look away.

It’s easy to throw on a playlist and get to it, starting at opposite ends of the room and work toward each other. There’s awful singing, chirps of painting techniques, and only a few stoppages to remind Ralphie that the gate is in the doorway for a reason.

The sky is just starting to darken when they meet at the corner of the room, nearly done with what little wall space isn’t made up of mostly windows.

Dylan has the advantage here, able to reach spots on the walls that Alex can’t without the stepstool that he’s left behind him, reaching as best as he can on his first pass.

“Missed a spot,” Dylan says running over his last section one more time before rolling a patch just out of Alex’s reach, even a bit out of his own reach.

Alex scoffs. “That’s above _your_ head, how the fuck was I supposed to reach it.”

“That wasn’t the spot I was talking about,” he says, then swipes his hand across the roller before pressing his hand directly to Alex’s cheek.

Fond indignance is a good look on him, Dylan comes to find out.

“You fucking–” Alex laughs, then runs his entire roller straight up Dylan’s arm, Dylan’s laugh catching in his throat.

It’s anyone’s game, then, splattering paint at each other and making a general mess of the throw-away tarps. Dylan’s not sure how one wins this, but Alex’s Coyotes logo is more covered than his own, so he’s sure it’s him who’s winning.

Well, until Alex tries to be sneaky and trips over the tarp and straight into Dylan, sending them both toppling to the ground.

Dylan groans, laughing as he complains, “you’re literally solid muscle, get _off_.”

But of course Alex is laughing too hard to do that, shoulders shaking as he tucks his face into Dylan’s neck, and Dylan’s heart nearly stops.

The moment is happening in slow motion; Dylan’s able to catalogue every place that they’re touching, can’t differentiate the feeling of his heart beating from Alex’s, and he’s sure that under the paint that Alex smeared there, that his face is bright red.

It must register that way for Alex, too, after he finally gets his wits about him enough to take a settling breath, still half on top of Dylan. He picks his head up, and it’s almost second nature to lock eyes with Dylan.

Dylan swallows, realizes belatedly that his hand just kind of naturally fell to Alex’s hip.

“Alex, get off,” Dylan says, weakly, too close for comfort but also not close enough.

Alex’s eyes flick down for a split second, so fast that if Dylan blinked, he’d have missed it.

He’s pretty sure he hasn’t blinked since they hit the ground.

“Do you really want that?” Alex asks timidly, and god, Dylan can feel the ghost of breath that the words carry against his lips, close enough that they’re sharing the same air.

Dylan swallows again, even though his mouth is completely dry.

Of course he doesn’t want that. He was trying to have some fucking semblance of self-preservation here, because this is a gift horse he was willing to look in the fucking mouth, but if Alex is asking –

“No,” he says, barely audible over the beating of his own heart.

When Alex finally, _finally_ kisses him, it feels like he’s flying.

It’s like their time apart hasn’t happened, but also like it’s happening in a video montage behind Dylan’s eyelids. Every second of joy, of pain, of every memory they ever fucking made, coming back to life in fucking technicolor just from the press of Alex’s lips against his own.

They’re both breathing heavy by the time they break for air, and at some point Alex’s hand wound up in Dylan’s hair and –

“Holy shit, I missed you,” Dylan says, and god it’s _out loud,_ and the words are hanging there between them and Alex has paint in his hair and a startled look on his face, like this was never meant to happen. Like he’s going to pull back and it’s going to be weird.

Instead, he smiles, small and private and shining and says, “I missed you, too.”

It makes sense that Dylan tugs Alex back in for another kiss, and he can’t help the way his head spins at how Alex hums against his lips. Fuck every other responsibility he has, everything he has to do from now until the end of time. This is where he’s meant to be.

Maybe not on the floor of Alex’s spare room. But _here_ , with Alex against him.

“The paint is going to dry weird,” Alex says, just a murmur against Dylan’s lips, not making any effort to get up. Quite the opposite really, his hips shifting minutely against Dylan’s, a barely there motion that Dylan probably would’ve missed if he wasn’t just as worse for wear as Alex is.

Dylan presses a quick kiss to his lips, brushing his thumb under the hem of his shirt.

“I’ll personally hire someone to fix it if you don’t stop doing what you’re doing,” he says, brushing his nose against Alex’s.

It’s a little too honest, maybe a little too fast, but all with the intent of making Alex laughs.

It works.

He can’t even think about how this probably isn’t the best idea, or about how there’s so much shit they need to unpack before they can even think about jumping into this. All he can think about is Alex’s lips on his, the press of Alex’s dick hard against his hip, Alex’s hands in his hair.

_Alex Alex Alex._

“Alex,” Dylan gasps, after a particularly well timed nip at Dylan’s lower lip. “We gotta– Come on.”

“Hmm,” Alex hums, pressing kisses along Dylan’s jaw, down the column of his neck. “Gotta what?”

“Gotta get off the floor,” Dylan manages on a laugh. “Your room, come on.”

Alex sighs, just a puff of breath against Dylan’s neck, and then he’s sitting back against Dylan’s legs, looking down at him.

Dylan reaches for his hand and Alex takes it, squeezing it once.

“We should probably talk about this,” Alex says, face red and sweatpants doing everything to betray his train of thought.

Dylan allows Alex to tug him up so he’s sitting with Alex in his lap. He opens his mouth to say something, to agree even though he doesn’t want to, but Alex continues before he even can.

“But can we just talk later?” Alex says, stealing the words right from Dylan’s head.

“Great plan,” Dylan says, squeezing Alex’s hand again. “Up.”

Alex smiles, kisses Dylan once more, then tugs them both up and away from the badly drying paint.

He’s at least apologetic when he closes the door on Ralphie, following behind Alex where he’s getting tugged along by his hand toward the bed. It’s easy to settle over Alex, kissing him sure and firm, pouring everything he feels into the press of his lips, the sweep of his tongue, the slow grind of his hips into Alex’s.

“Fuck,” Alex gasps, pushing his own hips up to meet Dylan’s, and god, this is like their first time all over again. “ _Dylan_.”

“I–” _love you,_ Dylan doesn’t say, just stops speaking all together and grinds even harder down into Alex. “ _God_.”

It’s so juvenile, chasing the feeling of their hips against each other, but it’s overwhelming and so, _so_ perfect.

“How dumb would it be if we just–” Dylan murmurs against Alex’s throat, but has to stop when Alex tugs at his hair a bit hard, moan sticking in the back of his throat.

“Really dumb,” Alex says, a little breathless, right in Dylan’s ear. “Less laundry if we’re naked.”

Dylan huffs a laugh, then sits back against Alex’s thighs before tugging his shirt over his head. “Our clothes are covered in paint,” he says, tossing the shirt to the ground.

“If you think I’m not going to throw those out, you’re wrong,” Alex says, a little distracted. Dylan has to blush when he sees Alex’s gaze zeroed in on his chest, fingers trailing over his stomach.

There’s some shuffling as Alex strips down, giving Dylan the space to take his own sweats off, then it’s all smooth skin and wandering hands as they’re able to lay together side by side, hands tracing the paths they knew by memory months ago.

Taking Alex in his hand is like second nature, even if he’s a little shaky in doing so. The groan that comes from Alex before he kisses him is gratifying, though, and he gets with the program pretty quickly. Nothing has changed about this, at least.

“Fuck, I missed this,” Alex says into Dylan’s chest, mouthing at the skin, leaving faint marks.

Dylan smiles, a little smug, presses a kiss to Alex’s forehead. “Been thinking about it?”

Alex nods, quick, like he’s not afraid to admit it. “Since my birthday,” he says, pushing his hips into Dylan’s hand, matching the rhythm.

Dylan blinks, breath catching in his throat. That was _weeks_ ago.

“Jesus, Al,” Dylan says, bringing his free hand to Alex’s cheek, tilting his head and kissing him hard.

Alex hums into the kiss, pressing impossibly closer to Dylan while also managing to get a hand between them, finally taking Dylan in hand and pulling out some of his best tricks he always had up his sleeve back when –

That doesn’t matter. Back _then_ doesn’t matter. There’s only here, only now, only Alex’s room and his bed and Dylan’s heart hammering in his chest.

“Dylan, I’m so–” Alex says, trailing off in a moan as Dylan twists his wrist at the head, just the right way that always made Alex see stars. “Keep going, fuck, please.”

Alex’s grip has tightened around him, and Dylan’s probably as close as Alex, judging by how his skin feels like it’s on fire. It’s not going to take long until–

“Fuck, Dylan,” Alex breathes, harsh and damp into Dylan’s neck. It’s only a matter of seconds before his breath catches, stuttering on a moan as he comes, spilling into Dylan’s hand and onto his stomach.

“Missed you,” Dylan manages, pushing his hips into Alex’s hand once, twice more before he’s coming, blood rushing and head spinning and breathtaking as Alex kisses the air from his lungs.

Alex is curled into his side once he finally blinks the stars from his eyes, lazily kissing at Dylan’s collarbone. Easy, soft, _there._

Dylan noses at Alex’s hair, kissing the top of his head, and wraps his arms around him, pulling him close without a care in the world for how sticky and uncomfortable they’re going to be in a second.

He missed this. All of it.

He’s brought back to earth from the floaty feeling in his chest when he feels Alex shaking under his arms, trembling with what Dylan knows is tears.

He rubs a hand at Alex’s back, tilting Alex’s head up to meet his eyes, and sure enough, he’s got tears welling in the corners, leaking down and over the bridge of his nose.

“Alex,” Dylan says, soft, curious.

Alex sniffs, blinking the tears away before shaking his head a little.

It’s jarring, the juxtaposition between the last time Dylan saw this exact scene.

_‘We’re going to regret this aren’t we?’ Alex had said._

_‘Probably.’ Dylan agreed._

“We’re okay,” Dylan says, his own eyes stinging. “No matter what, we’re okay.”

Alex smiles a little, presses his lips to Dylan’s instead of saying anything.

 

___

 

Dylan is honestly a little shocked when he wakes up to find that Alex is still sound asleep, curled into his side. He’s not sure why, because nothing about round two proved that he had any intentions of not staying right here, tucked into Dylan’s warmth, but the fear was still there.

The sun is streaming in, just barely out of Alex’s eyes, catching the shadow of his eyelashes as they fan across his cheeks. Dylan sighs softly, presses a kiss to the top of Alex’s head before slowly and easily shifting out of Alex’s grip, quietly tugging on his sweats and roaming into Alex’s closet for a hoodie.

He’s quiet as he gets Ralph ready to go outside, leaving a note on Alex’s phone just incase he happens to wake up, but Dylan knows he sleeps like the dead, always has.

Ralph’s fairly cooperative – more so than usual, when it’s Dylan taking him out.

“Being good so we can let daddy sleep, huh?” Dylan says, scratching at Ralph’s ears as they wait for a walk sign. Ralph just looks up, licking Dylan’s hand in response.

They walk the usual route that he and Alex would walk together, the sun starting to peek through the buildings along the riverwalk and can’t help but think about when they walked through here, filming for the Winter Classic.

_‘I want to bodycheck you so bad right now,’ Dylan said_

_Alex laughed. ‘Just throw a little elbow?’_

He can almost hear Alex’s laugh sounding in his ears as he and Ralph turn a corner, head in the general direction of home. If Dylan had to place a moment where this clicked back together in his head, that would be it. The easy going, back-to-normal banter of him and Alex, like nothing had ever changed.

In all the ways it did change, though, this one is welcome. New city, new team, same best friend.

It’s cold enough where Ralph doesn’t even fight it, just trots along at Dylan’s side until they’re back in the building, making their way up the elevator and through the door of their apartment.

Not too much time has passed by the time Dylan gets Ralph off his leash, but it was enough time for Alex to turn over, starfishing across the mattress. Ralph follows him into Alex’s room, sniffing at the bed, almost asking Dylan if he can get up.

Dylan quirks an eyebrow, then nods before gesturing up at the bed before sitting down on it, patting the mattress softly.

“Come get him,” Dylan whispers, and Ralphie jumps up, immediately nosing at Alex’s arm, wiggling under.

Alex stirs awake, eyes barely cracked open to look at Ralphie before blinking a few times and looking up at Dylan.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Dylan says, leaning on one arm as Alex slowly comes back to life.

Alex smiles, just the slightest upturn of his lips as he scratches at Ralphie’s ears with a content sigh. He’s always been a bit slow to rise, especially on days off, regardless of what time he wakes up. He takes care to stretch, back popping and groaning a bit as he does before looking back at Dylan.

“Hi,” he says softly, tucking his arm under his pillow.

Dylan crawls back under the covers, letting Ralphie settle between them. The air is a bit charged, Alex looking at Dylan like he always does when he’s avoiding something.

For once, Dylan is pretty sure this isn’t something bad that Alex is avoiding.

He shifts a little closer, close enough where he can reach out and rest his hand on Alex’s arm while getting settled back into bed.

Alex hums, lets his eyes flutter shut for a second before taking a deep breath.

“So, we’re talking, right?” Alex says, eyes still shut until he finishes speaking.

Dylan nods. “I assumed,” he agrees, lazily petting at Ralph as Alex shifts to sit up.

He’s not wearing a shirt, always opts to sleep without one, and there’s still flecks of paint on his arm. Dylan wants to kiss him, to run his fingers down Alex’s arms and trace the freckles on his stomach.

He wants this. Always has.

“I missed you,” Alex starts, picking at a hangnail on his thumb. “Sometimes I feel like I was missing you before the break up, you know? Like it was already clear and I just – I don’t think we can go right back to that.”

Dylan holds his breath, knows that Alex isn’t done talking and sure as fuck isn’t going to interrupt him.

Alex sighs a little sharp and runs his fingers through his hair.

“But I want to try it, is that dumb?” Alex asks, smiling a little, but the smile is a little sad. “There’s no distance, no miscommunication this time, it’s us. We can handle that.”

Dylan rubs his thumb over the bit of Alex’s tattoo that’s showing, that he’s got his hand on, and nods.

“That’s not dumb,” Dylan says, and means every word in the center of his chest. “I’m with you. I’m in. Whatever this turns into, I’m in.”

Alex smiles, for real this time, lets his hand reach for Dylan’s and takes it in his own, squeezing. “Yeah?”

“Hundred percent,” Dylan says, eyes locking with Alex’s, trying to pour everything he’s feeling into that one look. “I’m in, Al.”

Alex laughs softly, looking over at Dylan and Ralphie, settling on them with the small, private smile that Dylan’s sure is reserved for him.

It’s a pretty good look on him, Dylan’s not gonna lie.

“Me, too,” Alex says, then shifts so he’s curling back into the blankets, stirring Ralphie enough where he gets up, fed up with the movement and goes to lay at their feet.

Dylan settles into the spot Ralphie occupied, reaching out for Alex and still, even after talking about it, he’s a little shocked he gets to have him curled into his side.

“I just,” Alex starts, then scrubs at his face. “I need you to talk to me, okay? Like I promise to talk to you, too, we’ve just–”

“We’ve gotta be better,” Dylan finishes, setting his chin on Alex’s head. “I’m going to work on it, I promise.”

Alex nestles in closer, and Dylan can feel the ghost of his lips pressing against his chest before he exhales, deep and settling.

“We’ve got time before we have to be human beings today, right?” he says, humming into Dylan’s chest.

Dylan just nods, wraps his arms around Alex and holds on tight, mostly because he learned the hard way how easy it is for him to slip right through.

“We’ve got all the time in the world,” Dylan says, pressing a kiss into Alex’s hair.

  
  
  


*

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> ralph is a central part of this story and really deserves his own character tag.


End file.
